April - Old Mutual Two Oceans Marathon

[Sweder]

The Caribbean cruise that was to be the ICC Cricket World Cup is in severe danger of capsizing. Holed below the water line early on by nefarious tragedy, the competition is listing badly following two of the most one-sided semi-finals in the competition's history. First up, the Kiwis lost their nerve against the fiery Sri Lankans, then South Africa, in an embarrassing facsimile of England, imploded. It was an ugly affair that was tough to watch, the sound of hard men quietly weeping drifting up from the Cape.

But wait – what’s this steaming over the horizon? Has someone seen the flare sent up by the gaggle of wretched hacks drowning in the tepid waters of sporting mediocrity, their expense accounts drained along with their ability to focus? I swear I saw Bob Willis slip a note into an empty rum bottle last week, casually tossing it into the azure waters behind David Gower’s picnic table in the midst of one of Nasser Hussein’s diatribes on the forward defensive. The final, the long, long awaited show-down at the end of this rambling, stumbling, everlasting competition, is in sight, and the portents are good. Sri Lanka’s warriors may have names that sound like tropical diseases but in Malinga the Slinga and Murali the Chucka they possess the two genuinely mercurial talents in the tournament. Predictability is never an option with these guys, and in Sanath Jayasuriya and Mahela Jayawardene they offer strong resistance and attacking flair with the willow.

Standing astride the crease at the other end is a brooding colossus. Mathew Hayden is a man who seems able to increase in size at any given moment. Striding out to the crease, his lone eyebrow sheltering his piercing eyes from the blazing sun, he appears to be a man of impressive, if human, proportions. But once installed at the crease, his bat, by all accounts a mighty instrument, looks like a toothpick in hands that could bend girders. Like the incredible Hulk Hayden seems to enlarge himself as the bowler rushes in; strong shoulders tense the fabric of his green and gold shirt, the sleeves stretched to breaking point as mighty muscles prepare to inflict untold pain on ball and fielding side alike. And on the other side of the coin, surrounded by rapacious, testosterone-fuelled youth, stands a man for whom time has been called so often you’d think him a bar-fly. Glenn McGrath, scourge of the English, Mr Outside-Off-stump: And-There’s-No-Run, is a man whose thirst for glory is not yet slaked. Already the leading wicket-taker and now holder of the all-time tournament record, this ageless performer will once again tease and frustrate the opposition, all the while predicting damnation for all who stand before him through the broadest, shiniest grin.

My will to live has been battered, my stamina tested to extremes by the insufferable longevity of this tournament. I was quite prepared to don my life-jacket, put on a wig and huddle down in the escape pod with the women and children, seek the solace of dry land and the prospect of some restorative, rapid-fire footie. But I’ll cling on to the railings for a few more days.

There may yet be a classic ending to this Caribbean odyssey.